Blood Can Dry
by Miss Lestrade
Summary: Carter's life is slipping away between Benton's fingers...is it too late to save him, body and soul? Focuses mainly on the two doctors' struggles and friendship. NOT slash.


Blood Can Dry

The color red is a pretty thing. It can be as red as a fire engine, red as an apple, or maybe red as blood.

Blood drips like oil. Blood, warm like candle wax, drips onto the carpet. The carpet is white as the purest snow. The blood stains it, like a smear of black ink spilt onto a fresh piece of paper.

Blood does not come off one's skin easily. Blood smells like iron. Cuts don't always just stop bleeding.

These are things that Peter Benton learned.

These are things that Peter Benton learned while trying to stench the flow of blood from a wound.

These are things that Peter Benton learned while trying to stench the flow of blood from the slices on Carter's wrists.

"Man, stay with me." Benton hissed into his friend's ear. Carter's features were pallid, his breaths raspy and short. His entire, lanky form was curled into Benton's arms, like a child curled into a parent's embrace. He shook violently, an occasional whimper passing through his lips.

"Carter…Carter…" Benton whispered. "God, what've you done?" Benton put as much pressure as he could on his friend's wrists. Carter remained limp, blissfully paying no heed to the fact that the other doctor was still trying to squeeze life back into his weakened body. Blood still seeped through Benton's hands, and still it dripped lazily onto the carpet.

Benton had called for paramedics five minutes ago. That was three-hundred seconds ago. Three-hundred seconds of praying for his friend's life to not slip away through his grasp. Three-hundred seconds of blood sliding and staining his hands.

There was also an uncounted time…the time that Carter had spent alone, shivering on the floor, feeling himself drift away. Benton wanted to know if Carter had felt relieved to die, if he'd been willing and unafraid. Benton wanted to know... if he had been closer to his friend, looked out for him more, if _this_ could have been avoided.

Now he would be lucky to even throw a terse greeting at Carter in the hallway during the early shift.

* * *

Sirens sound like so many things. They almost sound like singing, a song that is filled with sorrow and fear…a song that's filled with hope. To Peter Benton they were the sound of redemption. They were the sound of heaven's gates closing, nudging John Carter's soul back down to earth because its time wasn't done yet.

Carter's head lolled near Benton's shoulder as he was raised up in a pair of strong, steady arms. There was no way in fiery hell that Benton was going to wait for the paramedics to find them. He gently lifted Carter against his chest, blood falling in tiny rivulets to the floor. He would carry his friend up a mountain that stretched to the clouds.

The paramedics rushed up to meet them, their faces tight with professionalism. Some gasped or took a shocked wobble forward. Some knew this man, and knew the man in his arms.

No one was going to surrender this life. The blood had to be stopped. It would be.

* * *

Sheets on a hospital bed are white. They're like snow, pure and pristine. There's no other analogy for it.

John Carter's mind buzzed, hazy and confused. He could feel nothing, yet he could feel everything. He felt the monitors beep, felt the air of nurses passing by. He could feel, rather than smell, the crisp antiseptic scent of the room. The only thing missing was the pain. John Carter wondered why this was.

They'd wanted to put him in restraints, but Benton and Greene had refused. Mark had pushed his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose, looked once at Benton, and agreed. This was Carter they were speaking about; Carter. Still, he was worried. Scared, even. He demanded that someone watch the young doctor at all times.

_God! When had it come to _this_?_

Benton sat, with his back near the IV pole. Light shone carefully through the shades on the window, illuminating certain, mundane objects in the room. Each one had its place, and today, they all seemed…necessary. Necessary for normalcy. Carter stirred slightly. He was awake. He'd been awake for forty minutes on the dot.

His heart was pounding mercilessly, and his breathing became worse. When Benton had first taken his seat next to the bed, Carter had been perfectly aware of it. He'd been unconcerned. Now, he could barely keep his breaths even. Every second that ticked by was another kick to the stomach. He finally surrendered to it and opened his eyes.

* * *

Benton leaned forward as Carter finally opened his eyes. He was suddenly angry, yet rejoiced that his friend was still alive. He barely knew how to act, how to carefully pick out words. Suicidal patients were one thing. Suicidal friends were something altogether different. He leaned closer, hands on the rails at either side of the bed. _Hey, man._

Carter stared up at his friend, terrified. His skin prickled under the scrutinizing. "Hey, Carter."

"Doctor Benton." His voice was icy and shaky at the same time. How funny.

"Don't try and pull that crap on me, Carter." muttered Benton, dipping his head. "God, man…" Benton reached out and rested his hand on Carter's hair. The younger man tried to pull away. Benton merely increased his hold, daring his friend to look him in the eyes. Just once.

Trembling with exertion, Carter stilled. All it took was one, small glance at Benton's face. His eyes flicked to look at his friend, and that was it. It only took a moment.

Carter's body convulsed in a sob, and he pulled free of Benton's hand to roll into his pillow. His throat knotted. He was sobbing, so hard he could barely breathe. It hurt, like a rope snaking around his lungs. He couldn't stop. Warm tears rolled down his face, and heat radiated from his skin. The pillow was stained with his suffering.

Benton put a hand to his mouth, massaging his jaw for a moment of thought. He moved to sit on the edge of the bed, and looked down at his friend. Carter was curled into himself again, looking impossibly like a lost child. His heart broke for what John Carter had become. Benton reached down, and slid his arms around Carter's thin, weakened form. Benton effortlessly raised his friend up from the bed and gathered the young doctor to his chest. Carter continued to sob, folding limply into the embrace.

Benton stroked his hair, firmly rubbed circles into his back. "Calm down…it's alright, John…it's ok..." Carter latched onto Benton's shirt, fingers entwined in the fabric. For now, it was all the comfort Peter could give.

* * *

Carter leaned against the desk, yawning widely. He ran a hand through his hair and groped blindly around for his coffee. Carol passed him quickly, but not before dumping a few charts into his arms. Carter grimaced. "Thanks, Carol." he muttered sarcastically.

Benton passed him as well, but not before throwing a terse greeting into his vicinity. Carter swallowed and managed to smile.

In the end, blood will dry.

* * *

A/N:

Wow! That was a difficult story to write! It took forever to get it just right, but I think it came out OK. Please, please review. They're like a life source to me. I need them to improve my writing and feed my ego (just kidding)! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed reading this story.

This is set sometime after season 6. Yes, it's pretty much AU. And if you're wondering why Carter tried to commit suicide, it may not be exactly as you think. Maybe it was just a mistake. It's really up to the reader.


End file.
